Special Thanksgiving Edition

 Poems by Alarie Tennille, Lauren McBride, Sharon Waller Knutson, Joe Cottonwood, Marianne Szlyk, Gary D. Grossman and jlewis.

  

 The First Thanksgiving by Alarie Tennille

Homemade cranberry sauce
and pumpkin pie—almost
all the trimmings, but made
for two.   

I sit down at last, drape
the napkin on my lap.
The table’s spread with wedding
dishes and silver not yet
accustomed to use.
He thanks me for the meal.

We decided not to invite
the usual holiday guests —
the insults masquerading as teasing,
the voices growing louder, slurred,
or even the polite small talk ¬¬–
like a well of mashed potatoes
trying to hold back the gravy
of anger.

I give thanks for quiet,
the new sound of home.

Alarie’s story:

https://stortellerpoetryreview.blogspot.com/2023/04/storyteller-of-week_8.html


Still With Us by Lauren McBride

Grammy's tablecloth
Mother's china
Dad's carving knife
still with us
every Thanksgiving
 
first appeared in Songs of Eretz

Link to Lauren’s first chapbook:

https://www.amazon.com/gp/product/1088281982/ref=ox_sc_saved_image_7?smid=ATVPDKIKX0DER&psc=1

 

Turkey Day Cooking Lessons by Sharon Waller Knutson

It is wise to rub sage
on a turkey before roasting
it in a preheated oven,
my teacher-chef father lectures.\

as he uses his finger to spread
the dried spice on the skin of a wild
turkey and sticks a MacIntosh
from our tree in the cavity.

Bake your dressing outside the turkey,
our mother says as she boils
giblets, celery, onions and broth,
pours over dry bread and bakes.

Always make your own cranberry
sauce, my mother says as she boils
fresh berries with water and sugar
as snow falls in Montana in the 1940s.

Pies taste better when made from scratch,
my grandmother says as she rolls
the dough and my sister and I cook
the pumpkin and add cinnamon and cloves.

I learn my lessons well and seven
decades later, I forgo the savory sage
mixes, Stovetop stuffing, canned
cranberry sauce and storebought pies

and rub my turkey with dried sage,
stuff it with an apple and make my
dressing,  pie and cranberry sauce
from scratch as the sun shines in Arizona.

Sharon’s story:

https://stortellerpoetryreview.blogspot.com/2023/03/meet-editor-sharon-waller-knutson.html


Children never shut the door by Joe Cottonwood

except when they slam it.
Muddy-paw dogs run through the house.
A dove lost, confused, flaps against the skylight.
From the turkey in the oven we hear
spits and gurgles. No gobbles.

In broad daylight Uncle Olaf and Aunt Gerta
strip to skivvies and soak in the hot tub.
The children join them.
The dogs want. We say NO!
They ignore us and jump in.
Then out. Then shake.

Grampa and his girlfriend Jennifer arrive
on a two-seater bicycle from fifteen miles away.
Grampa is eighty and has no hair.
Jennifer hugs everybody, especially the dogs.
We smile. We bring towels.

Uncle Simon on a stepladder catches
the dove in a hanky. We all make calming
coo-coo-coo sounds as he carries it gently,
so gently outside. Opens the hanky.
The dove flies to the nearest tree. Clutches
a branch. Head-bobs toward us. Thankful.

Now let’s hold hands around the table,
close our eyes. Squeeze (gently)
the hand you’re holding.
Let go, like a dove.
Amen.

first published in New Verse News

Joe’s story:

https://stortellerpoetryreview.blogspot.com/2023/06/storyteller-of-week_16.html
.

In Praise of Molded Salad by Marianne Szlyk

In wartime, canned olives and sweet pickles
jitterbugged through the cherry red moonlight.  
Girls played Crazy Eights while praying for
boyfriends and brothers who fought overseas.

Years later thin cucumbers floated in
the zero-gravity of sweet lemon
Jell-O cut with white vinegar and posed
on frills of lettuce on a gilt-edged plate.

Until the year when the Berlin Wall fell,
Gram brought molded salad each Thanksgiving.
The salad might have been served on a plate
once or twice, but mainly I remember

the faded Tupperware mold, container
for the lime-green or sometimes lemon pond
where carrot curls, chopped celery and canned
mandarins floated past pineapple shreds.

My brother called this dish “moldy salad,”
but we all loved its light sweetness even
when I lived on brown rice in Boston and
Mom was on the Atkins Diet again.

Gram’s molded salad was the home where fruits,
vegetables, and sweet Jell-O all lived
in harmony even when we did not.

First appeared in Setu

Marianne’s story:

https://stortellerpoetryreview.blogspot.com/2023/04/storyteller-of-week_21.html


Thanksgiving Recipe Poem 2021 by Gary D. Grossman

Ingredients:

1 Partner
1 Child 4-6 years of age
1 Child 8-10 years of age
1 Set of Parents
1 Set of In-laws
1 Brother, spouse, and two teenage boys
1 Uncle Bob between 72 and 75
2 Cases of Mixed Five-Year Old French Bordeaux and Spanish Riojas, both white and red
Usual Foods-- turkey, sweet potatoes, broccoli, lettuce, cranberries

Seasonings

1 Set of Comments About Republican Obstructionism
1 Set of Rejoinder Comments About Incompetent Liberals
1 Set of Comments From Older Relative and In-Laws Regarding Child-Rearing
2 Glasses of Wine Beyond the Capacity of Every Adult
2 Questions Regarding the Purchase of European Rather Than American Wines
Two days of Parents Wandering Around House Clucking Tongues and Shaking Heads
Endless Patience
Two Day Supply of “I’m Sorry You’re Having Such Trouble”

Instructions

Begin preparations on Wednesday before the Holiday, as relatives straggle in three hours late--hungry and tired from traffic. Universal opinion is that tail-gating, speeding and failure to use turn signals is the new normal. Discuss whether Uncle Bob should still be driving, while he is listening. Admonish kids to be on best behavior and not run around the house. Install porn-block on all computers to prevent surprises from teen-aged nephews. Argue about the football game to watch and why the Braves didn’t deserve to win the World Series. Discuss which pies can be cooked the day before and agree on pumpkin and apple. Parents begin wandering around house with furrowed brows. Begin two days of “I’m sorry you’re having such trouble”.

Make quick run to store with brother and sister-in-law, get caught in traffic, only to find tart apples for pie are sold out, as is canned pumpkin. Discuss whether fresh pumpkin will work for pie but decide against purchase. Leave with bottle of “Eat Crow” bourbon, and argue over who should pay. Sister-in-law graciously reminds you that you’ve recently been laid off, and that they offered to host the dinner this year. While bagging the lone bottle of bourbon, grocery bagger asks for some “Thanksgiving generosity” with palm outstretched and pouting lower lip. Fumble for single dollar bill, present to bagger, and receive scowl in response.

Continue drinking bourbon neat. Bottles of five-year-old red Chateau du Grava, Chateau Laffitte Laujac and Marques de Riscal are opened and drunk.

Next Day:

In-laws arise at 6 AM and begin watching yesterday’s rebroadcasts on the Fox News Channel. With their hearing deficiency, volume projects through entire house, waking everyone except Uncle Bob. Your kids, who have given up their bedrooms for guests, are both in your bed, and begin, along with your partner, to cry. Older teen-aged nephew begins to wander through house displaying Uncle Bob’s dentures in water glass to everyone awake. Younger nephew declares he is vegan and will not eat anything.
Everyone is awake and food preparation begins after heated discussion regarding whether to have breakfast at home or to go out. No one calls the restaurant before leaving and it is closed until the following Monday. The three-car convoy returns home, coffee is quickly made, and blood pressures and pulses slowly return to normal. Uncle Bob has forgotten essential medicine which results in a 1.5 hour drive in traffic, to his home and back. Discussions over food continue, especially regarding when the 22lb turkey should go in the oven. Parents continue wandering around house with worried expression, open various closed doors and issuing occasional “clucks”. Brussel sprout side dish is vetoed by acclimation. Kids eat bag of marshmallows meant for sweet potato dish. Turkey is placed in oven at 10 AM, basted with a sherry-lemon sauce enhanced with ground cloves, cardamom, allspice, smoked paprika, and cumin. Highball glasses of Eat Crow resume at 11:30 AM.  Turkey cooks for five hours without basting because everyone already is plastered. Basting resumes as does vegetable and salad prep. Turkey is turned breast down to retain juices. Turkey is removed from oven after an additional hour of cooking. Brother and Father-in-law argue over who carves the turkey best. Discussion ends with them agreeing to disagree, and you begin to carve turkey. Inner breast meat is reddish-pink and obviously uncooked. Discussion ensues over the health hazards of eating undercooked poultry. Bottles of white Graves and Bodegas Muga are opened and glasses poured. Turkey is quartered and each quarter is basted and placed in microwave for 12 minutes on high. Turkey fat heats and paints inside of microwave with grease which ignites in minute ten. Turkey is removed and carved into ragged piles of flesh and plated on slightly chipped stoneware platter. In-laws ask if chipped platter is a health hazard because of potential retention of old juices. Broccoli is cooked and seasoned with butter and garlic powder. Top falls off the old jar of garlic powder and half jar goes on the broccoli. Broccoli is rinsed in warm water and replated. Homemade cranberry sauce is bitter, and you substitute canned jellied cranberry sauce left over from last year’s Thanksgiving. Green salad is prepared and dressed with a Dijon-mustard tarragon vinaigrette.
Meal is plated, wine glasses refilled and meal served. Toasts are made to various deceased family members on both side of the family.
Repeat in 2022.
 
from Lyrical Years, Kelsay Press, 2023

Gary’s Website: https://www.garygrossman.net/


Sonnet of Thanksgiving by jlewis

In giving thanks, I fear I may forget
to name some helping hand that met my want
then slipped away, escaping memory's net.
I try to bring them back but find I can't.
And so I add into a silent prayer,
petitions for those selfless, loving folk
who without asking, when a need was there,
provided without measure. When I walk
my daily course, I feel them always near,
unseen, names lost to recollection's pull,
but never failing in their steady care
for one who often seems a simple fool.
To them I offer heartfelt gratitude.
I'd thank them each in person, if I could.

first appeared in Verse-Virtual

Jim’s story:

 https://stortellerpoetryreview.blogspot.com/2023/06/storyteller-of-week.html